


Walk On

by Punk_Kenobi



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: AU where Elrond's a soldier, Angst, Death, Description of combat, Flashbacks, Gen, M/M, Modern AU, PTSD, Who becomes a doctor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-04
Updated: 2015-06-04
Packaged: 2018-04-02 20:58:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4073665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Punk_Kenobi/pseuds/Punk_Kenobi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes doing the right thing is saying goodbye. Too bad the memories won't leave him alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walk On

**Author's Note:**

> So first off, I'm nervous about posting this. It takes place in a modern AU setting my dear friend wombats_echo and I roleplay in, but the details aren't linear and there's many little facets to it that won't connect to each story I write. I've considered making fanfics based on our roleplays, but I don't want to change her words around. This short thing came as a result of one of our small oneshots. 
> 
> If anyone is curious about details, I'll have a couple fics in the works, but you can also contact me. 
> 
> Title and summary from a Shemekia Copeland song of the same name.

He's in the field, shells exploding around him as his men are struck down. Only a hip-high wall protects him, half destroyed by a prior explosion, as he kneels and crouches into a ball. He pops up occasionally, shouting orders to duck and cover, but the cover is sparse and the men fight for spaces to cower, only to be thrown backwards with each impact, shrapnel piercing their skin under their fatigues. The loud thumping of distant rockets connecting with the earth mixes with the nearby whistling and the heat of fire that surrounds them.

An innocent child wanders out blearily from a building that is mostly rubble, dust and dirt caking her skin as she looks around deliriously. Her arm bleeds sluggishly from a gaping wound cauterized by the heat of a blast, though the child doesn't utter even a whimper at this. His instinct to move the child to safety kicks in as soon as he sees her, the child carrying a tattered blanket and calling out for her mother. He's pulled backward by hands, strong and familiar, a low voice in his ears right as he makes a motion to save her. He sees the ring he'd given the man glint in the light of the fires, a silver promise between them. The soldier jumps out in his stead, the whistle of incoming fire making the pit of his stomach drop. There were words exchanged but the whistle in his ears grows louder and before he can yell out he's knocked onto his back by the force of the strike.

And then a flash of light. There was no scream, from either of them, only the ringing in his ears. The scream he hears is from his own mouth.

And he finds himself in a hospital operating room on his knees, curled into the ball he should be in. Someone is speaking to him but the sound is distant, other voices frantic buzzing to him. He looks up at the table where the patient should be. The victim's turned into a dear friend of his, one he knows can't be in front of him, for she is upstairs in another ward likely singing along to some boy band or watching cartoons. She can't be here, with her pale blonde hair and blue, sightless eyes, hospital gown marred with blood, blood staining her lips as she coughs up more of the red liquid. She can't be here. Her mother and father would be devastated. Where are they? He feels ill, like he could vomit at any time, as the glassy eyes of his friend bore into him as if she were reading his mind, asking him why he couldn't save her.

But she can't be here.

Which means he's not back in the war.

And the ringing in his ears is the monotone of the heart monitor.

Someone coaxes him to his feet and he's taken to another room, the voice gentler and almost condescending. It's less distant but now he hears little over his own thoughts. Looking into the adjacent room, the child's no longer his best friend but a brunet girl in a pink dress stained red. Little relief comes with this realization, for he lost a patient all the same. He's a doctor, after all, and it was his duty to keep her alive, only to have her death bring on his own memories. 

He's selfish, that's what he is. Damned selfish for lapsing into memory when someone needed him most.

He nods along to whatever the person is saying, feeling numb and anxious at the same time. Hands try to touch his shoulders but he growls and shrugs them off. They speak of therapy, of PTSD and flashbacks, and he knows he has no use for doctors telling him he's disturbed, as he knows it or he wouldn't be having these fits. He knew everyone came back from the military with something to show for it. This is the first one he's had outside of his home, though, and it's embarrassing to know so many saw him falter so severely. People try to ply him with water or empty sympathies and he hates it. Eventually he walks out, still in a haze, but instead of returning to his dismal flat for the evening, he takes the elevator up to the pediatric oncology ward. Somebody follows him, a nurse he knows, but he doesn't acknowledge him at all. He's no danger to others nor himself, he just wants to visit his friend.

He knows she should be fine, but he has to make sure. He can't bear the thought of losing anyone else.

When he looks through her door window, his friend is braiding a friendship bracelet while watching cartoons. Her hair is gone, as it should be for someone undergoing chemotherapy. He breathes out a ragged sigh, still feeling nausea creep into him but it's not as intense as it was. Knocking on the door, he schools his features into a smile, one he's taught himself how to show even when inwardly he's feeling at his worst.

The door opens and a similar smile is returned. "Mr. Elrond!"

"Hello, Celebrian. How are you today?"

The girl hugs him, and he pats her shoulder in return. He's not feeling up to having people touch him but he can't push her away. Celebrian looks up at him, a quizzical look on her face.

"Mr. Elrond...why are your hands shaking?"

He doesn't answer.

Celebrian leads him to the chair he always sits in, which he takes with gratitude. His legs are weak and he feels weak in body and mind. She digs around the blankets on her bed before fishing out the friendship bracelet she was working on. 

"I made this for you!" she exclaims proudly, holding up the bracelet. "Maybe it'll help your hands."

Elrond isn't sure what to say to her. It's as if all of his vocabulary had been used in that one short sentence. He takes the bracelet and fumbles with tying it around his wrist for a minute or two before Celebrian's tiny hands take his own and assist him. His hands shake too much to tie it himself. He feels like a child again, shaking when his guardian would come home drunk and angry after a failed heist.

"There. Hmm...my hands shake sometimes when they give me medicine. Did you take medicine?"

Elrond shakes his head. "...no. I...made a mistake."

Celebrian cocks her head to the side. "A mistake? Like what?"

"A very serious one." Elrond replies tersely.

Celebrian hops back onto her bed and leans on the railing, hands holding her head. "So...you're shaking 'cuz of it?"

"Not only because of it." 

They talk for hours, though he avoids the topic of his flashback, and eventually Celeborn comes in. He hugs his daughter happily and smiles. 

"Thank you for sitting with her, Elrond." he says, noting the tired look in Elrond's eyes.

"I needed it." Elrond admits. "I've had a terrible day, but Brian made things better."

"Perhaps you'd like to talk about it later?" 

"...no. But thank you."

He never says a word about the incident again. He comes into work the next day and acts like nothing happened. The elephant is in the room but he ignores it. He can't speak of what he saw.

There really is no way to describe watching your lover die twice.


End file.
